Intern August Strindberg is back, and naturally he's feeling despondent about many things these days: The Wizards' losing streak, Kwame Brown's hamstring injury, the fetid smell of pig vomit that surrounds his very being.
Norra Begravningsplatsen, the Northern burial place where I left my raped soul in the bowels of Stockholm aeons ago, shares a sign in common with that above the Wizards of Washington's lockerroom door:
Huc venite pucri ut viri sitis (Come hither boys and become men)
Here in Stockholm the sign is but a cruel joke at the expense of the young men laid here by consumption, absinthe, and the black plague. At the MCI Center the sign is but a remnant of the days when Jahidi White ran the lockerroom on a barter system of cigarettes and soiled towels. Rife was the sickness then, when the man they call Salieri Jordan --- a.k.a. the Black Plague --- ran things with a steely hand and a teaching dildo. "Alas, like Gary Glitter," sayeth Salieri, "I was merely teaching these young children, not molesting them with cries of 'flaming faggot' and 'akimbo manchild.' Kwame, all is forgiven, you gaywad."
Salieri, you are filth in a uniform, bile personified, a shite hole from which no soul named Kwame shall ever escape. Have you seen his stat line this year for the Lakers? 5.9 points and 6.2 rebounds in 28 minutes per game. Such waste, such grime! And now God's Son is out for two weeks with a hamstring injury. Too many minutes were sitting on the bench contemplating the sound of Salieri's homophobic squeals, which still resonate in the Manchild's precious head. When those earth-shattering screams esacape the Manchild's ears, they take over all of L.A., filling the City of Angels with the belittling shrieks of the Chicago Devil himself. As Kobe Bryant lofts shot after putrid shot, Phil Jackson just sits there like a pile of stinking mulch, a sour look enveloping his hideous lumpen face as if to say, "Oh, something odiferous just wafted by. Let me meditate on said stench in order to trace its origin. Kwame? Kobe? No.... SALIERI."
Alas, I digress, but what else is there to fill these endless days? Digressions are like a salve for man's ripped apart heart, plugging the wound with tinctures of time. There is nothing else but darkness.
The Wizards are on a three-game losing streak, and perhaps they will overcome this bout of depression by torturing the Denver Nuggets tonight with high-decible readings of Etan Thomas' recent Sunday Source article or Gabriel Garcia Marquez's rancid new biography about my life: Memories of My Melancholy Whores.
Blast you, Garcia Marquez -- liar, fraud, stinkfish! I condemn you to the deepest recesses of hell, where we will meet face to disgusting face, and where I shall have my savage revenge upon you and your tiny chorizo.